


tell me how to love you

by foggys_cupcake_girl



Series: Kinktober 2020 [11]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Dry Humping, Honeymoon, Kink Discovery, Kinktober, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Protective Credence Barebone, Spanking, Sub Original Percival Graves, Teasing, Tickling, gentle Dom Credence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26964385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggys_cupcake_girl/pseuds/foggys_cupcake_girl
Summary: On their honeymoon, Credence learns that his husband has a kink he never knew about. What concerns him more, though, is that Percy never would've told him if he hadn't figured it out himself.DAY 11 of KinktoberWritten for prompts:Prostitution| Spanking | Tickling | Teasing
Relationships: Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves
Series: Kinktober 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950283
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	tell me how to love you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iPumperdiddle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iPumperdiddle/gifts).



> I'm gifting this one to iPumperdiddle, again, because she came up with this prompt and because she's amazing and deserves all the soft!Graves and seductive!Cree porn in the world ^_^ <3

Percival Graves has laid claim to so many of my “firsts” that, if you think about it, it’s almost kind of unbelievable.

He was my first kiss, my first real crush, certainly my first lover—none of that is so unusual. What _is_ unusual, apparently, is that a month into our relationship he took me to an indoor waterpark and watched with tears in his eyes as I went down a waterslide for the first time. When we went to dinner that night we split a brownie sundae, and I thoughtlessly mentioned that I’d never had ice cream until I lived with the Goldsteins. He looked at me in utter shock for a moment, then ordered another sundae and pushed the whole thing over to me. Message received: _you’ve been deprived, but it’s okay, I’m here now, I’ll provide for you._

Sometimes that still happens. I’ll say something casual, a simple fact over which I’ve never thought to shed a single tear, and then I’ll see Percy’s face and cringe because he looks like someone has just kicked him in the stomach. He has cried more tears for me than I ever have cried for myself. But there’s no point to feeling sorry for myself: after all, why would I cry over all the things my mother kept from me, when Percy has given me everything I could ever want and more?

We got married at the courthouse, much to our friends’ general disgust (except Newt and Tina, who did exactly the same thing and even helped us plan a discreet getaway). Now we’re three days into a two-week honeymoon cruise that I wish could last for the rest of our lives. Percy went all-out and used the money we saved by not having a wedding to get a concierge room and book us all these fun little extras, so we’ve truly been living the high life for the last few days.

We’re snuggled up together in a steaming-hot vanilla-scented jacuzzi bath when he asks, “What do you want to do tonight, sweetheart?”

What I really want to do is nothing. Today we stopped in Cozumel and spent the day at a nature park, hiking through jungle paths, snorkeling in the lagoon, running and playing on the beach like children. It was lovely to be outside all day, but now I’m worn out and even if he’ll never admit it, I know Percy is too. I do know, however, that if I say I want to go to dinner and the comedy show tonight, he will gladly get out of the tub right now and rush to get ready to go.

Instead I curl up tighter in his arms and ask, as if he’s doing me a favor, “Can we just order room service and stay in tonight? Today was fun, but I’m beat.”

“We can do whatever you like,” he says immediately.

And that’s been the tagline of our relationship since day one. It’s like dating the Giving Tree: Percy will just give and give and give of himself until there’s nothing left if you don’t stop him. I learned early on that if I want him to rest, I have to pretend to be tired. If I want him to stop and eat, I have to tell him I’m hungry. And so it goes. I’ve yet to figure out a way to use this trick to make him see a therapist, but the second I do, he’s going, damn it.

We do eventually get out of the tub, and this of course is when the fun starts, though I won’t know it for a few days. It starts like this: I’m wrestling with the hair dryer when he comes over and cuddles me from behind, placing little messy kisses along the line of my neck as he does. “Ugh, cut it out,” I protest, trying half-heartedly to push him away. 

He just giggles like a child and doubles his efforts, eventually landing his mouth on my neck and sucking hard. I moan, my knees trembling, and grind back against him in retaliation. I can feel him getting hard as I press my body against his, teasing him by nudging my ass against his crotch until finally, with a low groan, he detaches his mouth from my neck.

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he breathes, his tight grip on me loosening. (“Tight” here, of course, is relative; Percy is really very gentle.) “God, _fuck,_ that’s not fair,” he protests with a keening moan when I bend forward, ostensibly to try and break his hold, but really so I can grind into him a little harder.

“Oh, really? Maybe you’ll think of that next time you decide to bother me when I’m trying to get ready for bed.” In one smooth movement I break away, grab the forgotten hair dryer off the counter and playfully blast him with warm air. He pouts, and I point to the bedroom like sending a naughty child to time-out. “Go wait for me. We’ll order dinner later,” I decide, and his eyes light up.

It’s here that some dark, mischievous impulse takes hold of me, and I slap him on the ass as he turns to go to bed. He lets out an indignant little yelp. “Not fair,” he protests again.

 _“Go,”_ I laugh, and he does, still pretending to sulk. But out of the corner of my eye I can see him look back over his shoulder at me, something pleasant and promising smoldering in his eyes. I shiver a little with anticipation, and rush through the rest of my grooming so I can join him in bed.

~

Percy teases me frequently over the next few days, much more so than usual. I’m not sure exactly what happened, only that his anxiety seems to have taken a backseat to a goofy, playful side of my husband that I’ve never rightly seen before. He’ll tickle me, nuzzle my neck in public, squeeze my knee under the table, chase me around our room with the intent of starting a pillow fight. Showering together is like trying to bathe with an octopus; I spend more time trying to fend off his advances than actually getting clean.

One night he gets bold and pins me to the bed, straddling my hips and settling his full weight on me. He tickles me again, something he knows I only pretend to hate, but tonight I’m impatient for more and try repeatedly to buck him off. “Stoooop,” I protest between gasps. “I want you in me, I want—Percy, _quit it!”_ I can’t stop laughing, which drastically undermines my efforts to sound stern. “Oh my God, stop!”

When my protests don’t make him back off, I reach up and slap the side of his thigh. It’s a light tap, not even enough to hurt—but then, for Percy, it’s never really been about the pain. He loves when I lose control as we fuck and leave scratch marks on his back, when I pin him down while I ride him even if we both know he could throw me across the room if he wanted to. It’s the feeling of letting go he’s after, of knowing that he can trust me to get rough with him without _actually_ hurting him.

But when I slap his thigh (high up enough to be considered the side of his ass, really) he stills. His face flushes and he looks uncertain, but something in his eyes darkens and— _oh._ Suddenly it all clicks into place, as the memory of the playful tap on the ass I gave him in the bathroom comes rushing back.

“Get off me,” I order softly, “and lie on your stomach. _Now,_ Percy.”

He hesitates another second, and then when I start to sit up he scrambles to do as I’ve said. “Please don’t hurt me,” he murmurs into the blankets. “I wasn’t—”

“Sh-h-h.” I stroke down his spine, slow and soothing. I know this part of the game. He puts up a token resistance every time, as if we don’t both know this really _is_ what he wants. “You wanted this all along, didn’t you?” I cup the curve of his ass in my palm, satisfaction trickling through me as I see the way it makes him squirm. “You wanted me to…oh, Percy, love, why didn’t you just _say it?”_

He doesn’t answer. Clutches the blankets under his face like a lifeline. I stroke up and down his back a few more times. He’s trembling, and I want him to relax, to enjoy this. To know there’s absolutely nothing wrong with what he wants, and that I’m more than happy to provide it. But he won’t get any real pleasure out of it if he’s lying here quivering with shame.

“I’m not going to hit you,” I tell him gently, “until you tell me why you want me to.”

(I’ll do anything he wants. Because he does so much for me, he does _everything_ for me, and if sex is the only thing he’ll let me do for him in return, well, I’m not going to complain. But I want to hear him say it. Want him to ask for it, tell me exactly what it is he wants. Because I know how it feels to be dealt pain from the hands of a person I trusted, and I’m not going to get this wrong, I’m _not.)_

He lies facedown, still shivering, for another moment. And then he turns his head a little and says in a tiny, plaintive voice, “Please don’t do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t _need_ that to get off, it just…it just feels good.”

“That’s all you had to say,” I tell him, and deliver the first slap to his waiting bottom.

The effect is instantaneous. He buries his face in the blanket again to muffle a groan of agonized pleasure, hips twitching in anticipation before I’ve even raised my hand to strike him again. I keep the slaps light. Gentle. Alternating cheeks and aiming for the fleshiest areas. Because it’s _not_ about the pain. I’m not really punishing him like a naughty child. It’s about making him feel vulnerable, letting him accept pleasure for once instead of giving it. Letting him be, in his mind, “selfish,” just for a little while.

With every slap his moans increase in volume and pitch, the sounds needier and more desperate each time a blow lands. It doesn’t take more than three or four before he’s rocking his hips into the mattress with every strike; by the fifteenth slap he’s thrusting back to meet each blow and thrusting down as I raise my hand, all but fucking the bed. I love seeing this, knowing that I’m making him feel so good.

I take a moment then, gently rub his back and ask if he’s okay. “Do you want me to stop?” I know the answer. But I have to ask.

When he turns his head to look over his shoulder there are unmistakable tears in his eyes, but he’s smiling and that’s all I need to see. “I’m all right. Are you?” he asks, ever mindful of my history. A brief flash of guilt contorts his features and I know he’s thinking of the scars on my back, of the marks Ma left on me with the dreaded belt.

But Ma never spanked me. She did much, _much_ worse than this. And if he ever wants me to drip candle wax on him or cane him or whip him, we’ll have to talk. But again, it’s not about that. He’s not after pain, he’s after release. I continue to rub gentle circles across his back until he relaxes again, and only then do I tell him, “I think I can make you come like this. Is that true?”

He moans and drops his face into the blankets again. “Sweetheart. _Jesus.”_

“Is that a yes?” I tease, and reach down to tickle the back of his thigh. He twitches and I mercilessly go on, “If I keep slapping this lovely ass of yours…are you going to come for me, love? Is that what’s going to happen?”

He murmurs something into the bedclothes that sounds suspiciously like _fuck yes,_ and I take that as my cue to keep going, now occasionally punctuating my slaps with another teasing tickle to the back of his leg, and I relish each and every moan I draw from him. Watching him get lost in pleasure like this is incredibly arousing and I would love to stop and make him turn over so I can get him inside me, but no—not now. This is about him, incredibly hot as I might find it (and, trust me, I _do)._

It doesn’t take long—another ten slaps, and yes, I do count—for his squirming thrusts to become disjointed and frantic. “That’s it, that’s it,” I coo as he writhes desperately. My slaps have become more like pats at this point; I’m just barely hitting him, but he jolts with each tap as if I’ve struck him with everything I’ve got. “Come for me, Percy, please, I want to see it, I want to see you let go…”

And let go he does, muffling his broken cries of pleasure in the sheets as he ruts into the bed with everything he’s got. I watch every line and muscle of his body tighten and then loosen all at once, smiling to myself as he goes boneless in the aftermath of what must have been an incredibly powerful orgasm.

I give him a minute before I turn him over. His eyelids are fluttering, his chest moving up and down with quick, shallow breaths. I love this, I _love_ seeing him all relaxed and dazed after he’s just come. I love thinking that _I’ve_ done this to him, that of all the sexy and fun and cool people he must have met in his lifetime, _I’m_ the one he trusts to make him feel this way.

I gently roll him out of the wet spot and onto a dry patch of the bed. “Easy,” I soothe him when he makes a little noise of protest. “Relax. I’m here. I love you.”

“Loveyoutoo,” he murmurs, sighing deeply as he presses his face into my chest. “Thatwassogood.”

I laugh to myself a little. I love this, love reducing the tough, strong man that I love to a quivering, word-slurring, helpless limp mess of pleasure. I hold him close to my chest for a long time, letting him come back to himself a little before I ask, “Is there anything you want right now? I’m going to order dinner in a minute, but is there anything else? Want me to run us a bath?”

(He _loves_ baths. Seriously, I think I’m married to a merman.)

“Mmm.” He takes a moment to consider it before finally, in actual clear words this time, he tells me, “No. I just want a few more minutes of this, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it is.” I cuddle him close and rub his back in gentle but firm circles. “Did I hurt you?” I ask, and he shakes his head against my chest. “Nothing…uh, burns, or aches or anything, back there?” I pull him closer and crane my head a little for a look at his backside. Nothing too bad, just a little pink. “No pain at all? Are you sure?”

“’M sure. Just tired.” He laughs a little. “I can’t believe you figured it out like that. Thank you, sweetheart. I don’t think I could’ve made myself say the words ‘I want you to spank me.’”

“If you had, I would’ve done it sooner,” I tell him bluntly. “Percy, you have to _tell me things._ And you have to _ask me_ for things. We’re married now, okay, we’re _partners._ You can’t just spoil me all the time and not let me do the same for you. You deserve to be held too, you know.”

“I have the feeling you’ll remind me if I forget again,” he says, trying and failing to sound lighthearted.

My heart aches for him. I know he thinks he has to be strong all the time, that if anyone besides me were to ever know that he likes to be held down and pushed around in bed, he’d die of shame. I know he thinks that if he doesn’t give me everything I want, that if he doesn’t protect me with his life, I will stop loving him. And I don’t know how to make him understand it’s not true. That I would give my life for him, too, without so much as a second thought.

But I don’t know how to tell him any of this, so I settle on, “We’ll talk about it later, okay? Just rest for now.” 

He hums sleepily and nestles closer into my arms. I hold him tight and pepper kisses across the beautiful face that I love so much. We have another week out here, I remind myself; that’s plenty of time to make him talk to me about this stuff. And if not…well. I look down at the silver ring on my left hand and can’t stop a rush of giddy joy from overtaking my heart. We have our _whole lives_ together. I think that’s enough.


End file.
